Rummaging in his mind for the forgotten name of the Proust’s novel he had recently read, he weighed the probability of his remembering the title of the novels he would read in the future, listening to the wind sigh a note of melancholy, with amused indolence. The wind seemed to be conversing in hushed whispers with the vast sky that made him feel guilty of encroaching upon their private space and he couldn’t help wondering if the lugubrious sky would ever sing songs of love like the wind, in return. The sky’s hollering tones in the form of thunder must have made the poor helpless wind sigh professing its discontent at the unrequited love, he mused, trying to weave a love story in the realms of his imagination. Who would want to hear one’s love roaring with unparalleled fury in a narcissistic rage? “Go find yourself another partner. Don’t be so masochistic!” he scolded the wind in mock anger, seriously contemplating within if possession as against desire made things look parched.  The vastness had given him enough room to conjure up new ideas for the poetry